The Troubles Within
An original poem written by Jinapher J. Hoffman
Her heart beats at a wild pace,
Electricity ignites her hollowed place,
Where drugs are sanity and sex is love.
Who is this blackened dove?
Is it sorrow
Darkening a mind too un-kept to read,
Or is it lust
Turning her beauty to desirable greed?
Though her eyes are open,
Only others can see within.
Who will be the man who has the pin?
The pin, which will fluidly write
The last words before she sees the light.
It’s a signature she’ll see,
Though not written by she,
On a will she shall admire
Written by a man she’d grow to inquire:
“Why me? Why me?” says she,
as she watches him wipe the blade on his knee.
“The key. The key,” answers he,
As he stabs one more time and no longer is she.
But, then, she’d wake on dirty ground,
Wondering how her life had become so upside-down.
Yet, when she lifted her hand and saw the drug,
Nothing would register, not even a heart-tug.
Murdered no longer, she would stand and shake,
Her body responding to an invisible Earthquake.
“Who am I? Who am I?” She would whisper to no one,
And after wandering the forest, there’d be no answer except a gun.
She would walk back home,
Breathing heavy and all alone,
Picturing herself opening the cabinet
And her hand being drawn to the gun like a magnet.
She’d pick it up and turn it to her face,
Only to hear the world cry,
“Oh! What a waste!”
Then, she’d pull the trigger, and fall to the floor,
And no one would find her until they walked through the front door.
She imagines the sirens, screams, and cries,
But also the people who would cry their lies.
“It’s their fault! It’s their fault!” she would break down to tears,
But no one could hear because of a wall of fake cheers.
She stops at the cabinet, ready to let go.
Then, she hears a crash, a bang, a fall.
He’d pull her away and cry, “I don’t know!”
Confused she’d say, “Why didn’t you just call?”
“Because I knew,” He’d shake his head, “you’d been feeling low.”
He’d pause right there, trying to stall,
“You’re not alone, though you think you are,” He’d show
By hugging her tightly, his body thin and tall.
She’d break to tears and reach a hand to her head,
“Is this real?” she would have said.
“Stop the drugs,” he’d gently say,
“You no longer have to pay.”
She’d weep and weep,
“How did I ever get this steep?”
“It’s okay,” he’d answer, “This love is cheap.”
Together they’d fall to the floor,
Both waiting anxiously for someone to walk through the front door.
Then, she wakes again,
Finding herself hovering beside the cabinet filled with sin.
She looks around,
Trying to decipher if anyone was there to make a sound.
Then, seeing she is once again alone,
Her mind switches from electricity to stone.
“No more,” she says, emptying her pockets of pills,
“It won’t be this girl that the devil kills.”